“The worlds gotten smaller,” the old man complained, barely able to sit up. Wheezes and coughs. “What happened to all the people?”
They’re dead. Fermund thought. The plague took them. By not the old man. The chills would be the death of him alright. He gets up and walks outside. To breath the fresh night air, he tells himself. To run away, someone else says. In De**yuk he is a corn farmer and owns eighty parcels of fine land besides the river Feuyor - the watery saint of the plains.
“Fermund! Where the fuck are you?”
He signed. “I’m here pa. I’ll come in a minute.” He did not intend to. The moon was a slim crescent and on the wane. But the stars were out in great numbers. He walked down to stables. Melow was in her stall. She was two luminous orbs in an ocean of darkness. “You like me, don’t you girl. You’re the only one now.” He left the horse to herself and climbed up the hill, to the very top where he’d left a blanket and wood for fire. The fire crackled into life before him. Fire was warmth and he was starved for it. If fire was warmth then the kettle was a fiery blaze. He took a swing and another. Cyrus was rising. The stallion was high above at zenith. A westerly wind was blowing in promise of a cool night. One last swing of the canteen and he was content. He forgot the old man, his father. He forgot the corn that lay below him, waving wistfully in the moonlight. He forgot who he was and who he had been. There was only the future or a dream of it anyway. He loved this land. He knew every inch of her, the rock, the brook and stream. He loved his animals, especially Melow, the cows and his dogs. Giving it up would be hard. Harder than when Collie had died. Harder even than when he’d lost his mother. Yet give it up he would come the dawn. The plague had taken his village. The old man and he were the only survivors. They’d locked themselves up. Set the dogs on strangers. Boiled their water. Ate their seed when it came to that. They were truly alone now. The market where he’d sold his corn was gone. For ten years he’d grown corn out of habit. He had every thing he needed. Corn to eat. Water to drink. Surely a dog needed that but certainly not a man. He knew there were cities out west and people too. He would go there. Where ever there was people there was hope to be had. Cyrus was now at the zenith. The hunter was rising.
The old man was gone. He’d thought so yesterday. He buried him besides Collie and his mother. Said the words and it was all over. A hundred miles of open country was his domain. He waited one more day. The corn would go to the birds like last year and the year before. Journey the dog would follow him. He set all the other animals loose. Let out the duck and set the fish free into the Feuyor. He broke the dam across the stream. He hitched Melow and Corinth to the cart and loaded it up with food,corn, lamp oil, hide and other things he could sell. The journey would be a long one – a hundred miles or so to Summerhills. “Journey! Come here boy. We’re leaving.” Journey ran up to him and placed his nose against his palm and licked it. “We have to leave now.”
It was midday and spring had overstayed. The days were longer and winter was fast approaching. Melow and Corinth set a fast pace and the huge wooden wheels rattled over sand and gravel. Fermund rattled in his seat. Journey ran on alongside, poking his nose into a rabbit warren now and then, chasing a scrawny cat and having a good time. Sometimes he ran across the path of the cart, frightening the horses and he would have to shout at him. There was scarcely a cloud to be seen. Fermund felt lazy and at ease. He did not look back. Not once.